“Okay.” I blow out a breath. “Trust the process.”
Keeping an eye on the monitors, I cross to the back of the room and open the first door on the back wall. The closet Hans got his clothes from.
The shelves are lined with stacks of clothing. All in shades of black and gray.
I grab a black hooded sweatshirt. Hans doesn’t have much body fat, but he’s tall and built, so when I pull the garment on, it’s spacious enough for my chubby frame. It’s also so long it’s the same length as my shorts.
I snag a pair of socks and stuff them in the hoodie pocket, then shut the closet.
I keep glancing at the monitors, but since I’m already up, I can’t stop myself from checking the other doors.
The second door reveals a closet full of duffel bags and boxes of electronics.
The third door reveals a closet full of nonperishable food. Mostly bland-looking things, packs of stuff I’ve seen in camping stores. But there’s also a half-full case of Skittles, the bright-colored packaging jarring next to everything else.
I take a pack.
Moving to the last door, I open it and feel that chill roll across my skin again.
Behind the fourth door is another door. A heavy metal one, just like the one we came through to get in here. But this one is leading the other way. Toward the backyard. Where nothing else should be.
I slam the closet door shut and hurry back to the chair.
The wheels slide around a little bit as I pull the oversized socks onto my feet.
A handful of the views on-screen are of the dilapidated house at the end of our little cul-de-sac, but I don’t spend time looking at those feeds. I don’t know why he has cameras on that place, but he’s not going there. He’s going to my house.
My house, which is featured in the majority of the camera angles.
I reach up and touch the screen that shows my large living room windows.
Since it’s dark outside and lights are on inside my house, it’s easy to see straight inside. I can see my couch, part of my work desk, and part of the opening that leads into my kitchen.
Hans has sat right here—I grip the chair armrests—and he’s looked right into my home.
Heat swirls in my belly.
My reaction to Hans has always been more.
I’ve been more interested in him than I should be.
I’ve focused on him. Wondered about him. Fantasized about him. Thought about stripping down in my bedroom window just for the hope that he might see me. And want me.
I never did it, but I wanted to.
And this… Him watching me. Or whatever this is. I know it’s not right.
And I know it’s not right for me to feel so fucking good about it.
But I don’t really feel like fighting it.
I know who I am. And I’m a lot.
My scattered attention span. My attempts at baking that I know are nowhere near as good as my mom’s. My ultra-curvy body that I have no intention of changing.
All my relationships have been surface only. Fun while they lasted but nothing special.
My parents raised me to have good self-esteem. And I mostly do. But a part of me has just assumed I’d be one of those single forever women. And I was okay with that. I accepted it.
I look around at the other screens, wondering if he can see into my bedroom.
My core muscles tighten just thinking about it.
Could he see me touching myself?
Would he have sat here, gripping that big dick of his, jerking off while he watched?
My eyes bounce around as I look for my bedroom window, but I don’t see a good view of it.
I move my attention back to my living room and yelp.
Because Hans is there.
Inside my house.
CHAPTER 65
Hans
I cross Cassandra’s living room and flip the deadbolt on her front door.
Assuming she’s watching and not disobeying by leaving my safe room, I stop in front of the picture window and hold up my hand with my fingers spread, letting her know I’ll be back in five minutes.
Then I turn and head back toward the back of her house.
The man outside is most certainly dead.
My pretty little Butterfly shot him straight through the Adam’s apple.
I believe it was an accident, but it’s still a damn good shot.
Even though I should be leaving, I move into the kitchen. There’s something in here for me.
On the counter, next to the stove with the tray of burned cookies, is a Post-it note. Just like all the other ones stacked in my nightstand. And I know she was going to give it to me.
I read the words.
Charred Sweet Corn Cookies.
“Ah, Christ.” I shake my head. “Why, Butterfly?”